


And Then There Were Two

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: (a bit of) Period-Typical Homophobia, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Character Death, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Suicidal Thoughts, background R/J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Mercutio is gone and Benvolio (and Romeo) struggle to carry on.
Relationships: Benvolio Montague & Romeo Montague, Mercutio & Romeo Montague, Mercutio/Benvolio Montague
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	And Then There Were Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amitye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amitye/gifts).



It felt like a dream. A really terrible dream he couldn’t wake up from. The duel, Mercutio bleeding out in his arms, Romeo’s confession about his marriage to a Capulet – it all felt unreal, a surreal blur in Benvolio’s mind that he couldn’t reconcile with reality. How could any of it be real? How could—

How could Mercutio be gone?

And yet, there he stood, beside Romeo, dressed in mourning and squinting against an oddly strong wind for the height of summer, when the air is usually still and heavy with heat. A funeral. Mercutio’s body, pale and still, in an open, polished casket. So many people, all of them with something nice and melancholy to say, even those who would have sworn Mercutio was a devil-born pestilence when he had been alive. Yet, all these things, all the damning evidence, made no sense to Benvolio. He heard the words and could not understand them. Saw the people and barely recognized them.

He had woken up every day that week to the realization that he wouldn’t see Mercutio that day. Or the next day, or the one after that. But something in his mind rebelled against it, played a tricky game of pretend – Mercutio was merely away, or ill with something not serious but contagious, or simply avoiding them because he was in a poor mood over something. None of these scenarios were indeed likely, yet they still felt more real than _this._

The only time he had seemed to truly realize what had happened was when Romeo told him about his marriage to Juliet. They had gone to pray together in the church and somehow one thing had led to another and Romeo had confessed everything – his marriage, how he had not wished to fight Tybalt to not hurt Juliet, how he had not wanted _anyone_ to get hurt. He had knelt in grief and guilt and Benvolio – astounded but this new and shocking information – had seemed to only hear that Romeo had not wanted to fight Tybalt because of a girl – a _Capulet_ girl – he had gone and married, and that if it wasn’t for that, Mercutio might still be alive. 

He had screamed at him then, ignoring Romeo’s sobbed apologies and declarations that he should have died instead. _Stop crying! This isn’t about you!_ After, he couldn’t remember everything he’d said, only that the next time he saw Romeo, his cousin had not been able to meet his eyes, and it had only been another knife to his heart. 

Tybalt had fled the city, as they later learned, and the Capulets left Verona in haste the following day. They swore they did not know where Tybalt had gone, but their intimates said they wished to allow the Prince some time to calm his wrath before returning, and the rumor was that they intended to help Tybalt set up house someplace else, away from Verona walls. _Perhaps,_ Benvolio had told Romeo, rather unkindly, _they mean to take the time to figure out how to undue your marriage._

 _That’s rather cruel,_ Romeo had told him, but said no more on the subject. Benvolio had felt some guilt after, but perhaps far less than he should have. 

Romeo and Juliet spent her last night in Verona together, in secret. And for all his petulance, Benvolio did not have it in himself to divulge their secret. They were married; what was to be done? If Mercutio was alive, he might have been able to shove some sense into Romeo, but Mercutio was gone, and Benvolio could not bring himself to care about much of anything. 

Yet it still did not feel real. 

He threw a glance over at Romeo as thought to ask, _is this really happening?_ – but Romeo was looking down, silent tears running down his face. Romeo, who had sobbed and wailed the day Mercutio died, now stood with his shoulders hunched, as thought trying to make himself smaller, wrapped up in his black mourning cloak, biting his bottom lip bloody, the tears completely silent. The sight only made Benvolio feel even more like this was simply a nightmare he would wake up from at any moment. 

Mercutio’s mother spoke, her hand stroking through Valentine’s hair. Then Escalus, somber and resigned. Benvolio knew what people said on the street – _very unfortunate, but bound to happen, with a temper like that –_ and Benvolio wished he could get away with punching them all in the face. _They don’t even know,_ he thought bitterly. _Yes, Mercutio had a temper, but he died to protect Romeo. He died for love and loyalty and friendship…_ And how Benvolio despised all of them – all those people will sour, regretful faces, thinking that Mercutio’s death was simply a sad but unavoidable circumstance. They didn’t know—they couldn’t understand—

How he laughed and loved life, even with all of its faults and darkness. Mercutio found joy and humor and adventure in everything. He went on flights of fancy and brought Benvolio along with him, in a whirlwind of imagination and color and _feeling._ To listen to him was to find peace, and to kiss him had been heaven on earth, and—

Romeo’s hand brushed gently against his wrist, and Benvolio looked over sharply, uncomprehending. It took him a moment to realize: it was time to say goodbye. 

He looked over at the casket, at Mercutio’s still face, so unfamiliar in its stiffness and coolness. He opened his mouth to say, _I can’t,_ but nothing came out, the nauseating lump in his throat growing bigger and bigger by the second. It was hard to breath. He looked back at Romeo, panicked and lost. How could he say goodbye? How could he say goodbye _in front of all these people?_

Romeo blinked at him for a moment, eyes red and puffy. Then, squared his shoulders and moved toward the casket. Benvolio watched him with a numb sense of amazement. Watched as Romeo stopped for a moment at Mercutio’s side, whispered something so softly it was indistinguishable, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Mercutio’s forehead. 

Of course Romeo could do so – no one would question him, no one would think of it as anything but a boy saying goodbye to his brother. Romeo’s love for women was well known; his marriage to Juliet by now common knowledge. Romeo walked back to his place beside Benvolio, raising a hand to Benvolio’s shoulder and squeezing it gently for a second. _Your turn._

 _Oh,_ Benvolio realized, and suddenly felt a lot worse about all the horrible things he’d said to Romeo that week. They had never explicitly told Romeo about what lay between them, but somehow he still knew. Perhaps they were simply obvious around him, but Benvolio wouldn’t put it past Mercutio to let something slip. After all, he and Romeo were always somehow in the same headspace, terminally capable of finishing each other’s sentences in any circumstance. 

Benvolio walked to the side of the casket, every step feeling heavy as though his feet were made of led. He did not want to remember Mercutio like this – so foreign and different, too still, too silent, all the life gone from him. Even less, he wanted to remember Mercutio as he had been when he died, blood gushing out of his side, covering Benvolio’s hands, whispering confused words against Benvolio’s ear, his face twisted in agony. _Where’s Romeo? I didn’t mean all those things—I didn’t—oh, Ben, I’m sorry, don’t cry—I love you—damn all this—_ Benvolio closed his eyes briefly against the memory of the pain in Mercutio’s voice, the desperation. He had told him then so many times that he loved him, there was no need to risk saying it now when Mercutio wouldn’t even hear him. So he leaned down and kissed his temple the way Romeo had, the coldness of Mercutio’s skin jarring, the truth burning against his lips. _He’s gone, he’s gonehe’sgone—_

 __Benvolio wished he could cry like Romeo, but no tears came.

The wind blew and billowed black mourning cloaks and skirts, howled through the trees, whispered through the grass. Somewhere in the back of his head Benvolio could hear Mercutio laugh as he wandered away from the burial site, not wanting to see the earth swallow up his friend, his lover, his _love._ The world swam and tilted, flocks of birds taking flight from the lake, up into the sky like spirits let loose, Benvolio looked up and searched for Mercutio between them. 

He couldn’t be gone, it wasn’t happening, it wasn’t—

He didn’t realize he was falling until Romeo’s arms wrapped around him and the sky disappeared into blackness. 

*~*

Slowly, the feeling of unreality faded and all that remained was the numbness. It became impossible to fool himself – Mercutio wasn’t _away,_ he wasn’t coming back. Somehow, Benvolio had to learn to live with it. 

At least, no one expected much of anything concrete from him, other than perhaps Romeo who noticed when he didn’t eat even if he came down for meals and always endeavored to coax him into eating _something_. Mostly, Benvolio kept to himself, or ignored anyone who was with him. If he ate, or slept, or took walks in the park, it was almost on autopilot. Days blurred together one after the other in a strange monotone, indistinguishable and pointless. 

Had Mercutio truly been his only meaning in life? It certainly seemed like he had been his only happiness. 

Sometimes, Romeo would try to talk to him – sometimes about small, inconsequential things, sometimes about Mercutio. But it was all for nothing. Benvolio could not focus properly on the small things, but talking about Mercutio hurt too much, made him feel like hew as suffocating. 

Now and again, something about Romeo’s expression would catch his attention, he would notice the bags under his eyes, and how puffy his eyes looked. He had always thought of himself as Romeo’s older brother, in a way, and now he was doing a rather poor job of being one. Older brothers did not go empty with grief, did not show the full extent of their pain. A good older brother would have thought it odd that Romeo had not crawled into his lap once to cry since the funeral. But a good older brother wouldn’t have yelled at Romeo in church that first night. 

Perhaps Mercutio had made him a better person too. 

Benvolio did not know how he could live with all the emptiness Mercutio left behind, but somehow he would have to. 

After all, Romeo was learning. Lord Montague even commended him for it once, a hand on his shoulder and a thin smile on his lips. Benvolio had just come in from the rain – a true summer storm, short lived but drenching. He stood just outside the sitting room in his dripping clothes and soggy boots, having come in quietly to not attract attention to himself. He stopped upon hearing his name in Romeo’s voice, froze on a stop without knowing why he needed to hear this. “Benvolio can take care of himself, Romeo. He’s not your responsibility. A man grown, and so on.” There was some distaste in Lord Montague’s voice. 

“Mercutio was like a brother to us,” Romeo protested, choosing his words carefully, just a little defensive. “I feel that loss too, Father.”

“Yes, well, I’m proud of you for dealing with it like a man and not a boy. I always thought Benvolio’s attachment was rather—”

“Father, that’s not—”

“Darling, perhaps we shouldn’t speculate,” Lady Montague’s lilting tones carried a bit of alarm. 

Benvolio forced himself to leave them to their family discussion and stalked upstairs. Perhaps Romeo was taking things better. But what right did his uncle have to make gossip of his grief? How unfair was it that if Romeo’s precious Juliet had died, Romeo would be allowed all the woe in the world simply because she was his lawful wife, Capulet or not? What were wedding vows compared to the way Mercutio had kissed him, or made him laugh, or listened to him talk about all the books he read that no one else had any interest in, or knew him better than he knew himself. 

Benvolio fell on his knees to pray but no words came out, not even a strangled _hail Mary, full of grace._ Perhaps this was how Romeo found the peace and strength to go on – he was always one to take prayer to heart, to find solace in it. But the words wouldn’t come to Benvolio, nor would peace. Perhaps Benvolio was simply too empty inside now for God to take any root there. 

Perhaps it was because he knew it was sin to love Mercutio, though it had felt far more like a blessing. 

*~*

He tried to go to confession with Romeo. That did not make things better. Friar Lawrence was far more adapt to dealing with Romeo’s sort of melancholy and grief. Benvolio, once again, found himself at a loss to explain. 

Mercutio was everywhere he went, in everything he did. Their lives had simply been too intimately, intricately interwoven to allow him any space to breath now. The Montague gardens and orchard were overrun by the ghostly memories of three boys running wild: fencing, climbing trees, eating pilfered apples, chasing butterflies, chasing each other—

Mercutio went through a phase when he was fascinated by butterflies. He dried them out in the sun, pinned them up by their wings, and made a collection of them. Said collection of dead butterflies upset Romeo, so Mercutio brought him butterflies that were still alive, cupped gently between his hands. Romeo would stare at them in awe, a soft smile teasing the corners of his mouth, and threw his head back to watch the butterfly soar when Mercutio finally released it. Benvolio was less squeamish, so Mercutio showed him the full collection. They’d stand together, with Mercutio’s arms around Benvolio’s waist, whispering scientific names he read the night before in some dusty book into Benvolio’s ear as though it was filthy pillow talk, until the tension in Benvolio’s abdomen grew unbearable and he laughed and pushed Mercutio away, as to not have his feelings found out. 

Mercutio was on the riverbank, chasing fireflies in the evenings, or yelling from a makeshift raft: _I dare you to come catch me! Jump in the water, Romeo. Come on, Romeo—Ben, push him in the water!_ He was a shadow slipping between the crowded stalls at the marketplace, stealing fruit and flowers and ribbons, more for the thrill, than anything else. He saw Mercutio on the cobbled streets – singing loudly as they returned from a night at the pubs, one arm around Benvolio’s waist and the other slung over Romeo’s shoulders – or fighting some Capulet boys, at first with rocks and wooden swords, then real swords – or jumping into a public fountain and convincing Romeo to follow suit. They’d splash around and laugh until Benvolio gave up on all common sense and joined them. 

Mercutio was in the woods outside Verona, where they went hunting and rode horseback. Romeo and Mercutio would race each other to the lake and wrestle in the grass until they were dirty and tired and laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Then, when the rest of the Montague cousins descended on them and swept Romeo up in their familial chaos, Benvolio grabbed Mercutio’s hand and led him into a patch of dense undergrowth, unlaced his doublet and shirt, kissed his neck and the dip in his collarbone, making him moan and buck up against Benvolio’s thigh. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the way Mercutio said his name, the breathy hint of a laugh, the amazed affection, the strained longing. 

Mercutio was in the fields and among the haystacks, waiting to pull Benvolio into a languid kiss in the light of the full moon. Benvolio could look up at the sky full of stars and still feel Mercutio’s hands tracing every line and crevice of his body, feel the warmth of his breath against his ear as he whispered, _You’re so beautiful,_ in the afterglow, with a tenderness he would never admit to during the day. 

Mercutio was everywhere and Benvolio could not escape the memories. They built up inside him and tore at his chest, strangled him, pulled him apart from the inside until he was silently screaming into a void that swallowed up every other emotion. He was afraid that if he tried to voice even a fraction of what he felt, he would shatter, so it was easier to not feel much at all, except for a crushing weight that never let go. 

*~*

It took a couple of weeks for Benvolio to make his way back to Mercutio’s grave. Looking back, he probably should have taken Romeo with him. 

There were still many flowers on the grave, though most were starting to dry up. The freshest were bright, Montague-blue forget-me-nots. Mercutio had once joked that those were the most appropriate flowers for funerals, given their name. Benvolio wondered if he had ever told that joke to someone else who had remembered, or if it was only a coincidence. 

Benvolio sat there for some time, dry-eyed and as unable to put his grief into words as before. “I loved you so much,” he whispered brokenly to the silent gravestone. “And I don’t know how to live now that you are gone. No one could understand. I don’t want to forget you, but I don’t know how I’ll mange to not go mad always remembering. Why did you leave me, Mercutio? _Why_?” 

Because he was brave and loyal and Romeo was like a brother to him – meant more to him than his actual brother. He braced himself against his own feelings, fearing that he might feel a wave of hate for Romeo, or at least bitter jealousy, but there was nothing other than a sucking emptiness in his chest. There was simply nothing to really blame Romeo for. He couldn’t have predicted Mercutio’s reaction, nor would he have ever wanted this. And they had all always been too willing, and too prepared, to die for each other if needed. If anyone was to blame, it was Tybalt. 

Mercutio always talked incessantly – clever puns, teasing encouragement, angry diatribes, utter nonsense. To have no response from him at all was deafening, sucking all the sound from the world until all that Benvolio could hear was the empty silence. 

He stood and laid the bouquet he’d brought beside the forget-me-nots, then slowly made his way home. 

*~*

Romeo found him tucked into a corner of the upstairs, private library, staring blankly at a book he wasn’t at all reading. Benvolio didn’t bother looking up and waited for Romeo to sit down beside him, quiet and patient as always. 

“I was looking for you earlier,” Romeo said quietly, looking down and picking at his sleeve. “Did you go to church?”

Benvolio shook his head. He’d given up the idea that prayer or confession would ease his mind at all. In fact, he wasn’t sure if anything would. Forgetting Mercutio would be impossible, nor would he ever want to. Perhaps, he was merely destined to swim endlessly in his memories, waking up every morning with an ache in his chest and going to bed every night empty and alone. No one would ever replace Mercutio, nor would Benvolio ever let them. It would feel too much like a betrayal. Perhaps he would simply swim forever in his memories – God knew there were plenty. Far too many – he was practically bursting with them. 

“Won’t you talk to me at all?” Romeo asked. “It might make it easier for you, too. I…I certainly wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to.”

“I went to visit Mercutio’s grave.” There was no secret there. And it wasn’t that Benvolio didn’t _want_ to talk to Romeo. He was perhaps the only person who could even begin to understand what he felt. There was also no use in making Romeo feel like he was angry with him – because that wasn’t really true either. _I just as might be angry at the wind for carelessly knocking over a decorative arrangement, or at stray pups for wanting attention and a bone._ What use was there for blaming Romeo for Tybalt’s choices, or even Mercutio’s? And Romeo was all he had left. “I should have asked you if you wanted to come,” he admitted. 

“It’s alright, I understand if you’d rather be alone.”

Benvolio sighed, the weight in his chest pressing harder against his ribs. There was a tension between his temples and a hot dryness behind his eyes. Dully, he realized he hadn’t property cried yet – in part for appearances, in part out of habit for keeping his feelings in check because someone had had to between the three of them, and in part because the sucking emptiness in him would not quite allow the tears to come. He shook his head. “It’s not really that. And I’m not trying to…ignore you—”

“I know you’re not—” Romeo said, a little too quickly, as though he was being accused of something. 

“Just nothing seems to—I don’t know how—Uncle expects me to go on as usual, Friar Lawrence tells me to pray, anyone who has bothered to voice an opinion says I should get drunk, maybe fight a Capulet to get the anger out. But I’m afraid if I start drinking I won’t stop, and if I fight, I’ll only hurt someone and what good would that do? Unless they kill me I suppose—”

“ _Don’t_ say that,” Romeo said, grabbing instinctively at his arm. “Please, Ben, I—you’re right to not fight, or drink really. We all remember Uncle Giovanni…”

Benvolio gave a small, bitter laugh. “Two dead sons and an un unfaithful wife. I don’t blame him.”

Romeo bit his lip. “Would talking help? Or…” Romeo trailed off. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve been useless, and I don’t know if anything could make it better just right now… But we…we still have each other?” 

The hint of uncertainty in Romeo’s voice made Benvolio look up at him and into his face. Romeo was looking at him with uncanny uncertainty, as though asking for permission for something. Benvolio tried to breath out and reached up to ruffle his hair. “Of course we do,” he said, and it came out choked. 

Romeo caught his hand and held it. 

“it’s not that I haven’t tried, Romeo,” he says helplessly. “I’ve tried praying and going about my usual routine and… But I can’t sleep and I can’t stop thinking about him, and I constantly feel like he’s only around the corner, hiding in some bush just waiting for a chance to jump out at me like some asinine practical joke and he’s talked you into playing along because you always did to please him. It’s like I don’t feel anything and everything at the same time. Your mother—Aunt, she—said to me yesterday that she hopes I’ve been checking up on you with everything that’s been going on and I suppose I haven’t—”

“Don’t mind my parents, they probably think I should be committed, after finding out about my marriage,” Romeo said, in that same half-frightened, rushed tone as when he’d told Benvolio he knew he wasn’t ignoring him. 

Benvolio squeezed his eyes shut against the reminder of Romeo’s marriage. While it was becoming obvious that Tybalt had not known about the affair when he came looking to fight Romeo, the entire situation still stung. But there was nothing to be done about it and he didn’t need Romeo’s apologies, or to make him feel any more guilty than he apparently already felt. 

“Everyone who doesn’t know about us, thinks I need to keep it together better, and everyone who did knew or at least suspected…” Benvolio shivered. There weren’t a lot of people like that. Romeo was probably the only person who knew for absolute certain, though some of the Montague cousins and Mercutio’s questionable drinking buddies probably wouldn’t be surprised if told. Benvolio wondered if Valentine had any idea. 

“Who cares what they think,” Romeo said. “Mercutio meant the world to us. You loved him.”

Benvolio breathed in, squeezed Romeo’s hand. The tightness in his chest hurt and throbbed, the frustration and longing wanting to come out. He looked over at Romeo again and that same fear that he would shatter if he allowed himself to cry washed over him again. It was always Romeo who cried – that was his role. 

Romeo reached up and gently pushed several stray strands of hair out of his face. 

Older brothers, sensible young men, did not fall apart from grief of losing a best friend. Or a lover. What use was it to fall apart, anyway, when it wouldn’t bring Mercutio back, or even properly express the magnitude of the loss? 

But it was such a relief to burrow into Romeo's arms and to be wrapped up in the warmth and comfort of someone he loved and trusted, somehow who knew the true source of all his pain and could claim to imagine its extent. Romeo stroked his hair and rubbed comforting circles into his back, murmuring gentle, loving nonsense against his temple. Slowly, as though melting under that warmth, Benvolio began to let go, and it was like coming apart at the seams. The suffocating numbness he'd felt since his fight with Romeo the night Mercutio died crumbling into an abyss which tore him apart from the inside, and he screamed the pain of that grief into Romeo's shoulder as Romeo held him tighter. 

The world spun slowly, almost lazily, and Benvolio was not certain of how much time had passed. At some point he had no more tears to cry and merely slumped, exhausted, in Romeo's arms, cradled there like an upset child. The part of him that still retained some sense told him bitterly that he ought to be ashamed of this unrestrained display. But who was there to see, other than Romeo? And Benvolio had played the role of comforting presence for Romeo's tearful tantrums over much smaller hurts many a time. It was not for Romeo to judge. Really, he probably should be more concerned at Romeo's oddly restrained mourning after the first couple of days, never mind his uncle’s approval. Since the initial outbursts and their argument, Romeo had been somber, often teary-eyed, and wore mourning like Benvolio. But there were no theatrics about it, no hysterics or even freely falling tears. 

But grief worked in strange ways, and the deeper grief might be the quieter for Romeo. Benvolio had no other evidence for this, but he was, to his own shame, too exhausted to think much on it. 

"Come, I'll put you to bed," Romeo said softly, running a hand through his hair. 

"No, I dare not sleep." He longed to dream of Mercutio, but feared the dreams would fade to nightmares all too quickly. It was a testament, perhaps, of how little he’d slept lately that he hadn’t dreamt anything at all since the duel. 

"I'll stay with you," Romeo offered. The unspoken _just as when we were children_ hung between them. 

Benvolio was too numb and exhausted to feel humiliated and felt too justified in his feelings for genuine embarrassment or shame. He nodded and managed to say, "Thank you."

Romeo withdrew just far enough to look into his face. "Tea and honey and sleep. It won't make everything alright, but maybe you'll feel a little better."

Benvolio doubted it. The numbness was coming back, but a little slower this time, and crying had in fact been quite cathartic. Perhaps Romeo was on to something there. The tension in his chest was a little easier, though replaced now by a burning pain. The last of the strange fog of unreality that he had been floating in at Mercutio’s funeral had faded away, leaving the world in the strongest of contrasts. 

There was nothing left to cling to, the analgetic of denial completely worn off and all his wounds exposed to the elements. He had shed all his defenses in Romeo’s arms – no more responsibility, no more respectability, even the distance his argument with Romeo had put between them was gone. So Benvolio slumped against Romeo’s shoulder and allowed himself to be herded off to bed. 

*~* 

For some time, it was like a dam had broken. All the feelings and memories that had crowded in Benvolio’s mind and stuffed it full of cotton and choked him every time he tried to speak, now rushed out in waves of nostalgia. So he talked and talked about Mercutio endlessly. 

As Romeo shared some three-fourths of his memories of Mercutio, it was almost like talking kept him alive somehow, made Benvolio feel as if he was almost there. Romeo, always good with words, told him vivid stories of his childhood adventures with Mercutio before Benvolio came to live in Verona, sometimes so vividly and fondly that Benvolio couldn’t help but laugh, even as Romeo hastily blinked away tears. Benvolio, for his part, recalled some of the things he and Mercutio got up to on the rare occasion when it was just the two of them and they were not engaging in something extremely private. 

They began going to visit Mercutio’s grave together, at least once a week. Sometimes, they would talk to him, sometimes just sit quietly. Benvolio, still a little embarrassed to cry where people might see, used the opportunity of the usually-empty graveyard to hide his face in Romeo’s shoulder and do just that. It was also the only place where he could talk _to_ Mercutio without feelings like he was going insane, talking to himself, to someone who wasn’t there. 

Perhaps it was only another sort of insanity, but Romeo always listened when Benvolio talked and always held him when he cried. They would walk by the river or sit on the roof of the old barn where Mercutio had loved to watch the sunsets and talked for hours – the same old stories, the shared catalogue of memories. It drained some of the pain, if only for a while, kept Mercutio close. “He’ll always be here as long as we remember,” Romeo said once, and Benvolio took the sentiment to heart, perhaps a little too literally. When they ran out of stories and memories, Benvolio started the carousel all over again from the start. 

He didn’t want to forget; he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t think he could if he tried. 

*~* 

Mercutio and Valentine had never been very close, even though Valentine was only a year younger than Romeo. In part a difference in age, in part in temperament, and probably the fact that by the time Valentine was out of the cradle, Mercutio was welded to Romeo and that bond, which by all accounts had been immediate, could not be easily undone. But Valentine was Mercutio’s brother, and Benvolio felt that it would be rude to avoid him too obviously when they ran into each other at the marketplace. 

“How are you?” Benvolio asked, politely, trying to recall if he and Valentine had ever spoken more than a few words to each other now and again. 

“Holding up, thank you,” Valentine said, his tones far more refined and soft-spoken than Mercutio’s. There was a reason why he was their mother’s favorite, Benvolio supposed, though the thought made him defensive on Mercutio’s behalf. “Looking after Mother has provided good distraction. How are you? Romeo says you’ve been a little better lately.”

“Fine, thank you.” Benvolio raised an eyebrow, curiosity overcoming him. “You’ve spoken with Romeo?”

Valentine flushed. “Only a couple of times when he’s come to check in on us and to give me…” Valentine trailed off, his eyes dropping. “My brother’s sword.”

“Oh.” Benvolio looked down to Valentine’s sword belt. He didn’t recognize it immediately without the blue ribbon tied to the hilt, but Valentine indeed wore Mercutio’s sword. A flicker of irrational irritation went through Benvolio. For Romeo to have so brazenly decided that the sword should belong to Valentine – to not even ask him – felt a little like a betrayal. If there was one possession Mercutio always prized most, it was his sword. _At least he bothered to pick it up off the streets,_ the more reasonable side of Benvolio told him in resignation. _You didn’t even think about it until now._ And Valentine was, after all, Mercutio’s brother. 

“It was kind of him,” Valentine said, a little shyly. “I asked if he wanted…if one of you wanted it. After all, he always seemed closer to the two of you.” There was a grave, almost-adult note in Valentine’s voice and Benvolio couldn’t help but reach out to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. 

“Romeo was right to give it to you. Mercutio was your brother.”

“Perhaps you and Romeo could come for dinner some time,” Valentine offered with a tentative smile. 

Benvolio nodded as to not argue or make the boy feel bad. It seemed like a bad, awkward idea. But maybe he was only being selfish. “Sometime, yes.”

Valentine left and Benvolio watched him leave, watched the sun glint off the hilt of Mercutio’s favorite blade. He wondered vaguely where the ribbon had gone – Mercutio never took it off after Romeo had tied it there as a joke about favors from fair maidens. Or something like that. Most likely Valentine had taken it off without giving it a second thought. He had no reason to sport Montague colors. Benvolio wondered what Mercutio would think of that, and realized with a pang that was becoming far too familiar, that he would never know. 

*

The waters of the river rose and fell in slow, rolling waves under him. Benvolio leaned over the railing of the bridge, the old wood creaking under his weight. He wondered absently how cold the water was at this time of year, imagined floating on his back until the water comes to close in around him. He would go down looking up at the darkening sky, a soft blue-grey, just a few shades off from Mercutio’s eyes.

When they had been younger, they would go swimming from the small beach a mile away, sneaking out of the house at night to skinny dip in the moonlight. Mercutio would hold his hand or lock an ankle around Benvolio’s. _So we wouldn’t lose each other in the dark,_ Mercutio would say, but his grin was so bright it seemed to combine all the stars into one. It was a different dark they should have been afraid of. The river had always seemed so full of life then – frogs and fish and crickets in the bank-side bushes. Now it felt empty and barren. The entire world did, without Mercutio.

Talking about him endlessly had helped at first – reliving his memories, crying in Romeo’s arms when the tidal wave of remembrance became too overwhelming, too painful. Now nearly three months had passed, and the well of old memories and stories was drying up, revisited so many times that the reality was becoming clear: it was all in the past. All the happiness, and love, and comfort. There would never be new memories. Only old ones, worn out to a threat with time and overuse. They could talk for hours, drown in their memories, but it would never be the same as having Mercutio with them.

And suddenly, Benvolio was almost back in the same place where he had been the night he broke down crying in his uncle’s library. He felt like he was constantly swimming through a thick haze of disbelief and despair, sometimes mixed in with feelings he had no desire to even recognize. He had always heard that grief got better – easier – with time – it almost did for a moment – but his seemed to only crystalize and harden, tearing at him from the inside. Now the urge to cry turned dark and tattered – anger and hatred and irritation. So often the feelings that bubbled up to the surface were pure poison and if he let them out, he was liable to hurt someone close to him.

“Ben?”

Romeo’s voice made him shiver. A flicker of guilt passed through Benvolio. He still had Romeo. That was not nothing. He shouldn’t treat him as nothing. Romeo had been with him this entire time, always beside him, always willing to listen. And, if Benvolio was honest, most of his memories of Mercutio were also memories of Romeo. Surely, he still had at least half his heart. 

“We were worried when you missed dinner.” Romeo came to stand beside him shoulder-to-shoulder. “ _I_ was worried.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Romeo stood beside him for a moment in silence. “Do you want to...talk? It might be easier...?”

Benvolio glanced over at Romeo and felt that ugly stirring again. He had no idea why. Romeo was always terribly sweet with him, endlessly patient. Yet even now, Benvolio couldn’t help but ask, in a tone far more demanding than he had any right for it to be, “I haven’t seen you all day. Where were you?”

“I…just had some errands to run. For Father.”

Benvolio’s eyebrows went up. That was clearly a lie. “For fucks sake, Romeo,” he muttered, and looked back at the water. “Just say you’re infatuated with some girl again—”

“That’s not true.” There was, oddly, no panic in his voice, but, stranger still, a bit of metal and a bit of hurt. “You know I’m married.”

“Do marriage vows breed constancy?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Benvolio groaned and rubbed both hands over his face. _Why are you picking a fight?_ he asked himself. _Is it really that important that everyone feel as miserable as you do? Have you truly not adjusted to this idea yet?_ “Forget it, I’m just being an asshole.” He wondered if he truly, under all of it, blamed Romeo for Mercutio’s death. That the bitterness he had felt in the first days was not only the thrashings of grief without an outlet, without a target, but the precursor of a more lasting bitterness. Or perhaps he felt bitter than Romeo did not seem to mourn Mercutio as much as Benvolio did – Mercutio who had loved Romeo well enough to die for him. Was he truly jealous that Mercutio had left him to protect Romeo? 

None of those thoughts were fair – he’d know that from the start – so perhaps he just wanted Romeo to get upset at him for once. Maybe it would help him feel normal. Or give him a reason to scream at someone. 

“I’ve barely had the state of mind to write to Juliet, not to mention think about any other girls,” Romeo said flatly. The half-tones of hurt in his voice were justified, and that only made Benvolio want to lash out more. 

He made himself stifle the feeling and looked up at Romeo again and sighed internally. He might not be lovesick, but Romeo still looked like shit – his eyes were puffy and red, like he’d been crying. “Are you alright?”

“What?” That strange note of panic again. “I’m…what do you mean?”

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

Romeo swallowed, shook his head. “Hay fever.”

 _Since when does Romeo get hay fever…in October?_ “Fine, whatever.”

“Ben—”

“I just need to be alone, is all. Tell everyone to not worry about me.” He turned away and tried to figure out if he wanted Romeo to stay despite his outburst or to leave so he could continue his morbid fantasies of joining Mercutio in the afterlife in peace. 

Romeo sighed audibly. “I’m taking you home. And then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Well it’s either I’m staying here with you or we’re going home and you can be alone there.”

“I’m not a child!” Benvolio rounded on him, his hands balling up into fists. 

Romeo barely flinched. He looked at Benvolio, glanced at the river, then met Benvolio’s eyes again and the ghost of a sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I love you too much for you to scare me away.”

Benvolio swallowed hard. Only Romeo knew him well enough to recognize the sort of thoughts that had been going through his head. He sat down and pulled his knees up to his chin. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

They sat in silence for a while, their shoulders pressed together. Finally, Benvolio said, “I saw Valentine today.”

“How is he?”

“Seems alright. Have you been…talking to him?” Benvolio sneaked a peek at Romeo over his arm. 

Romeo shrugged. “Just a couple of times. I wanted…just wanted to make sure they were alright? And I, um, I gave him—”

“Mercutio’s sword, I know. I saw.”

Romeo looked down at his feet. “It seemed right that his brother should have it.”

“Of course,” Benvolio said. It came out colder than he meant to say it. 

“I’m sorry, I should have asked you first.” 

_He says_ I’m sorry _all the time now,_ Benvolio realized. He bit the inside of his lip, fighting a righteous fit of bitterness. “No, it was the right thing to do. Valentine might use it to good cause. I, frankly, never want to touch a sword again.”

Romeo gave a small, bitter laugh in agreement. “Me neither.”

“And how would it look anyway?” Benvolio continued. “Valentine is his brother. I was just his friend.”

Romeo shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself, curling up. “You were the love of his life,” he said quietly. 

Benvolio couldn’t help but smile at the sentiment. “I doubt Mercutio operated in those categories. You’re quite unmatched for romantic sentiments around here, Ro.”

“Maybe so, but he was always telling me…” A wistful sort of smile crossed Romeo’s face. “The first time he told me he was in love with you it was like it always was with Mercutio – half-joking, completely lewd—”

Benvolio scoffed a laugh. That certainly sounded like Mercutio. 

“The second I had to pry it out of him – like anything serious. But after that…he loved how the autumn leaves looked in your hair, and the look on your face when you talked about something that interested you, and the way you always pretended to not want to get into mischief but always had the best ideas for pranks anyway…”

Benvolio flushed, the ache in his heart suddenly intensifying. He never doubted that Mercutio valued his friendship and his affection, wanted him in his bed, enjoyed his company. But this sounded a lot like—like what Benvolio felt. And he had never dreamed that Mercutio would reciprocate not just in kind but in degree. To Romeo, he said, “You two discussed me?”

“Well not _you—_ not…it just came up. Mercutio is—was terrible at choosing presents, so that’s often how it started. Honestly, he had the nerve to make fun of me when I talked about my loves while constantly mooning over his.” Romeo threw his head back and stared up at the sky. 

“You make it sound so romantic,” Benvolio said, a little overcome and a little scared that this was all just Romeo’s misguided attempt to make him feel better and the ruse would become obvious at any moment. 

Romeo shrugged. “It _is_ romantic. Just because you never wrote each other poetry doesn’t mean it’s not romantic. I saw the way you looked at him.” 

Another thought came to Benvolio. “Wait. But we never agreed to tell you we were together.”

“Stupidly,” Romeo said, venturing to give him a small, teasing nudge. “And you didn’t. But knowing he was in love with you and it being obvious how in love with him you were…it wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

Benvolio groaned and dropped his head in his arms. “Frankly, I don’t know why we never told you. It seemed strange to talk about.” Even stranger now to hear how, apparently, obvious Mercutio had been about his feelings, at least with Romeo, and how unconfused they were. _Why did I ever doubt you?_

Benvolio once again thought of Mercutio’s sword, oddly naked without its blue ribbon. Perhaps it had been tied as a joke, and perhaps Mercutio had only left it on because he thought the joke was funny, and to annoy those of his family who thought he ought not get so involved with the Montague-Capulet feud. But the fact remained, and it was that sword with its silly blue ribbon that Mercutio had raised in Romeo’s defense and had died holding. It felt like a much more romantic story than all the flustered, stolen kisses they had shared, away from prying eyes and unfriendly tongues.

“Does it surprise you that he loved you?” Romeo asked, sounding almost confused. 

Benvolio could feel Romeo’s eyes on him. He looked up cautiously, his stomach twisting into knots. He didn’t know how to explain without making it sound like he had not trusted Mercutio, like they hadn’t been happy. “Not surprised, no. But it’s a little…Mercutio was never very straightforward with his feelings.” 

Romeo smiled one of those sad, wistful smiles again. “No, he wasn’t.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then reached into an inner pocket and drew something out, held on to it for a moment, reluctant to part with it, then held it out to Benvolio. “You should have it.”

In Romeo’s hand, curled up like a baby snake, was a tattered piece of blue ribbon. 

Benvolio’s heart skipped a beat. “Is that…?”

“Yes. The ribbon I tied to Mercutio’s sword. The sword…the sword I gave to Valentine, but I took the ribbon off first. I don’t have a lot of things to remember Mercutio by and all… You have most of the letters and the miniature and I… But you should have it.”

Benvolio shook his head quickly. “No, it’s yours. It was your joke, your ribbon. I don’t…”

“That’s how it started, but I think Mercutio never took it off because it…he was loyal to us, always, and he liked sporting Montague colors, put that in everyone’s face. Unnecessarily, perhaps – a theatrical show of loyalty, but still. And you were the Montague he loved.” 

Benvolio reached for the ribbon, but stopped halfway. He closed his eyes and allowed the memories to wash over him again – Romeo in Mercutio’s lap, Mercutio’s arm around Romeo’s shoulders, their laugher and banter-insults and inside jokes Benvolio only halfway understood, the way Mercutio called him _the sweetest, stupidest puppy I’ve ever met,_ with an affection Benvolio never heard used toward anyone else. These things had never made him jealous before – he had seen them for what they were when Mercutio was alive, there was no reason he should start seeing hidden meanings in them now. 

He covered Romeo’s hand with his, and gently closed his fingers over the ribbon. “No, it’s yours. Mercutio and I were in love, but you were his best friend, his little brother, and he _adored_ you. I have no right to intrude on that. I have our letters and his miniature, like a proper heartsick lover—” he smiled a little sadly, a little self-deprecating. “But you were always his reason to fight and to flaunt this stupid blue ribbon around town. It’s yours by right.” 

Romeo laughed, tears glittering in his eyes, and threw his arms around Benvolio’s neck. 

A slow, thick warmth spilled over Benvolio’s chest, like someone turning over a barrel of warm honey. He hadn’t felt anything like it since Mercutio died. 

*

Benvolio woke with a shudder and a strangled cry, his hands scrabbling at the blankets and his breath coming in ragged huffs. He reached out for Mercutio beside him, only to freeze before his hands could touch the cool, empty space beside him on the bed. Of course. Mercutio was gone. His death had not been as cruel and gruesome as in the dream, it had been only Romeo he blamed – and even that likely was more a farce than anything – but he was still gone and there was no cure for that heartache. 

A soft nock on the door made Benvolio’s head jerk up. He tensed at the impending intrusion, but it was only Romeo who slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I thought I heard—” Romeo began, but suddenly cut himself off. 

Benvolio realized in that moment that he was shaking, anything he could or should say to Romeo getting stuck in his throat. He realized also, just as suddenly, that his mouth was dry and his throat felt full of sand like he had been crying or shouting for a long time. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at Romeo like a deer faced with a pack of hunting dogs. 

“Ben?” Romeo quickly crossed the room and crawled onto the bed beside him. “Benvolio, look at me.” Romeo put an arm around his shoulders and tried to gently coax him to look over, but the touch only made Benvolio shiver more. 

He was assaulted by the memories of waking up in Mercutio’s arms intertwined with the gruesome imagery of the dream, overlaid by the _real_ memories of the light leaving Mercutio’s eyes and blood soaking his doublet. It was hard to breathe and he gasped, trying to take in long breaths even as his lungs seemed to close up. 

“Oh no—no, no. Benvolio, look at me. Come on, it’s alright. You just had a bad dream,” Romeo whispered. “It’s only a nightmare, you’re alright.”

Romeo’s arms around him were warm and his voice steadying. Benvolio made another attempt at taking a deep breath and it ended in a chocked sob. “But it’s not just a dream,” he insisted. “It’s real, it’s real.”

“No, no it’s not. Look at me—whatever it was—“

“I keep dreaming of him dying,” Benvolio admitted. “In all these different ways. And it’s always my fault.”

He felt Romeo stiffen for just a moment when he realized what Benvolio had been dreaming about, but then the tension slowly seeped out and he was once again gently wrapped around Benvolio. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was, it was! He blamed you – _I_ blamed you, God be merciful – but it was my fault! I didn’t even try to stop them! Not really. And I didn’t hold you back and I didn’t help—I just watched him die—I just—“ Benvolio broke off, his breathing coming in gasps and making it impossible to speak. He couldn’t breath and he was dying and he deserved it.

“Ben—Benvolio, come on.” Romeo made him turn enough so that they were looking at each other. Romeo pressed their foreheads together and whispered hurriedly: “You have to breathe, Benny, come on. On my count, alright? Breath in—come on.”

Benvolio forced himself to inhale, letting Romeo’s familiar voice guide him. He felt like he was floating.

“Good. Breathe out. Breathe in. Out.”

Benvolio had always been good at following orders and Romeo guiding him through the exercise started to work after a minute or two as Benvolio felt his breathing even out.

“Good,” Romeo murmured. “You’re doing great, Benny, just keep breathing.” Romeo rubbed one hand down and up Benvolio’s back in a slow, soothing rhythm, while still holding on to him with the other. “It’s alright. I’ve got you, Benny, I’ve got you.” He leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Benvolio’s forehead.

Something about the childhood nickname, now long out of use, made any remaining restraints in Benvolio break completely, and he collapsed against Romeo, burying his face in his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have left you to sleep alone. I’m sorry,” Romeo said quietly. “I should have realized...”

“No, you couldn’t have known,” Benvolio managed to say through the remaining tightness in his chest.

“I should have supposed, especially after tonight. Even I dream about Mercutio ...”

“You do?” Benvolio hated how tearful his voice sounded, but he was also too exhausted to care.

“Yes. Sometimes his death and sometimes...our childhood together.”

Benvolio whimpered and latched onto Romeo, clutching him as though a child with his favorite comfort toy. No matter how much he tried to keep living, it always came back to this – every dream a new knife to the heart. Always the same reminder that it was all gone. He could still share all these things with Romeo, he tried to tell himself, but it wouldn’t be the same without Mercutio. He supposed it wouldn’t be the same for either of them. 

That he still had Romeo was probably the only thing left worth living for.

“I just miss him so much. All the fucking time, Ro. I thought I could keep him alive somehow—not—not literally, but just enough for me to breathe. If we just talked about him enough, never forgot—if we—if I—I’ve been so stupid, thinking that I could fight this emptiness. So delusional.” 

“I miss him too. Benny, we’re going to get through this. You...you’ll get through this, I promise, alright?”

Benvolio didn’t protest when Romeo guided him to lie down, but he had no intention of letting go of Romeo. On the opposite, he curled up against Romeo’s chest, and squeezed his eyes shut. Romeo continued to murmur soft nonsense against his temple and Benvolio was reminded of being a child. They did this then too - Romeo crawling into his bed after Benvolio dreamed of his dead parents. The memory almost made him smile. He’d survived that so supposedly he could survive this too.

“Romeo?”

“Hm?”

“I love you, you know that, right?” 

He could hear the smile in Romeo’s voice. “I love you, too. Try to sleep.”

*~*

The days went by, mostly all the same, though a little more distinct than before. 

October changed to November. Leaves changed color and fell to the ground, crunched underfoot painted the gardens and some city streets a multicolored rainbow. Lord Montague planned a hunting trip, which neither Romeo nor Benvolio could escape, but Romeo found a way to separate them from the group of chattering, laughing Montague cousins at a rest stop, and escape into s peaceful part of the woods. They walked hand-in-hand to the lake, Romeo swinging their arms a little like when they were little. Benvolio was quiet, a little overcome by the wistful memories of sneaking off with Mercutio to snog in the bushes.

“Poor foxes,” Romeo mused as they sat on the side of the lake on a small blanket Romeo had thought to bring. 

Benvolio lay his head on Romeo’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Hunting baffled me a little when I was young,” Benvolio admitted. “And then I suppose I got used to it.”

“Why be surprised,” Romeo said, a little bitterly, “that humans hunt animals when they practically hunt each other.”

“I’m glad we got away,” Benvolio said. “I don’t think I could stand listening to them talk about death and killing with such glee. I know it’s only foxes and all but—” He suddenly remembered the sly smirk Mercutio would sometimes have, and the glint in his eyes – _a proper fox,_ he and Romeo had laughed – and shuddered involuntarily. 

“Are you cold?” Romeo asked and reached for the clasp of his own cloak. 

“No, it’s alright,” Benvolio hurried to reassure him. The wind was a little chilly but that was only more reason to have Romeo keep his own cloak. 

But Romeo, stubborn as always, took it off and pressed into Benvolio’s side so that they could both huddle under it. “How long do you think it will be before they notice we’re gone?” Romeo asked. 

“We probably have another half-hour,” Benvolio said. Romeo was warm against his side and the lake was still, soothing. A squirrel ran across the opposite bank, scampered up into a tree. Benvolio couldn’t help but smile a little at it. It was so hard to smile these days – so few things to smile about and so much guilt for feeling any joy at all. He would sometimes catch Romeo in a moment when he was reading a letter from his Juliet and felt a pang of jealousy at the way he’d smile at the words written in her loopy, feminine hand. He would hide that joy as soon as he realized Benvolio was watching him. Having had sufficient time to knock the petty asshole out of himself, Benvolio began to wish that he wouldn’t – if Romeo still had happiness and purpose in his life, he shouldn’t have to hide it simply because Benvolio so often still felt like he was drowning. 

“We can stay here however long you want,” Romeo said, fishing out some sweet biscuits and handing one to Benvolio. “Father knows we were not exactly pleased to go.”

Something about his petulant tone made Benvolio think of how Mercutio would sometimes say that they shouldn’t go back to the hunting party and just stay hidden in the bushes. _Let them look for us if they please._ It seemed they only ever went back as to not alarm Romeo. _I suppose,_ Benvolio thought, biting into the biscuit and realizing that Romeo had managed to take his favorite sort, _I still have someone to sneak off with during hunts._

 __  
November bled into December. Rain became snow quickly that year and Benvolio breathed a little easier. On rainy days, he sometimes felt like the downpour might drown him. Sometimes, on the worst, occasions, he went wondering in it, only to have Romeo find him an hour later and take him home, bundle him up in blankets like a fussy mother hen, and spend the rest of the evening reading out loud while Benvolio lay with his head in his lap, staring at the fireplace.

Some part of him realized that he was probably intolerable – sneaking into Romeo’s room at all hours of the night to hide under the blankets and curl up against his side, even though it woke him up, as the rain battered the roof, and the wind shook the windows. Romeo would never hesitate to wrap an arm around him and pull him close so they could fall asleep wrapped up together. He might never be able to fall asleep in Mercutio’s arms again, but it was nice to not have to fall asleep alone all the time. 

Once, on such a night, he ran into Romeo in the hall. He looked a little like a ghost in his long nightshirt and without a candle. “What are you doing?” Benvolio asked, a little baffled. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Romeo admitted.

“Neither could I. Mercutio really was the only one of us who loved thunderstorms.”

Romeo made a small sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob, but Benvolio could not quite make out his face in the dark. Romeo took his hand and said, with a smile that sounded a little formed, “We should at least _try._ ” Benvolio’s room was closest. 

Benvolio feared that he would not be able to survive Christmas if he allowed himself to drown in his memories again. So he threw himself into the family festivities as much as he could at Romeo’s gentle urging. They decorated the large Christmas tree in the Montague ballroom on a sunny Sunday morning after mass and the small one in the downstairs sitting room the following evening. Benvolio taught his and Romeo’s nieces, nephews and youngest cousins his favorite Christmas carols and took them caroling around the garden and down the street. He and Romeo annoyed the cooks into letting them make a valiant attempt at backing gingerbread cookies and ended up making more of a mess than anything else. 

Romeo got dragged into a snowball fight once with some of the Montague children and Benvolio watched them from the porch with a cup of hot cyder in hand. While he didn’t feel quite festive enough to join them, he was suddenly acutely aware that he did not want to go inside either. He supposed it wasn’t that he felt festive at all, but the comfort and warmth of the large family gatherings breathed a new sense of belonging into him. Romeo was a shelter from the storm of his own feelings, from bone-deep loneliness, but there was also a strangeness to being with Romeo and without Mercutio. Two could never be complete without the third. That feeling was diluted when he and Romeo were drowned in a larger whole, even if neither of them was as close to the rest of the family as they were to each other. 

The snow helped too – bright and glittering, it invited Benvolio to take some joy in at least _something_ whereas the rain had only wanted him to cry. 

When they went to midnight mass, Benvolio, to his own surprise, realized he could pray easily for the first time in months. 

“What are you doing out here alone?” Benvolio asked, closing the door to the back garden porch behind himself and muffling the sounds of cheerful music and children’s laughter from the Christmas festivities. 

Romeo looked up from where he was leaning over the porch railing. He tried to smile but it looked pained to Benvolio in the dim light. “Just getting a breath of air,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Benvolio shrugged and went to stand beside him. “You should be proud of me. I lasted most of Advent without moping too much.”

He meant it as a joke, but Romeo looked very serious as he said, “I am—or rather, I’m happy you’ve been able to enjoy the holiday at least a little. I was worried…”

Benvolio sighed and leaned over the railing too. “Christmas without Mercutio…it still feels so surreal sometimes, you know?”

Romeo nodded. “Yes.”

There was a tight note in Romeo’s voice that made Benvolio look over at him. “What were you thinking about out here? Juliet?”

Romeo was quiet for a moment, then said a little reluctantly, “Mercutio. He’d…when we were children he’d do the stupidest things like…try to lick snowflakes off my nose.” Romeo giggled, the end of it chocking up. “And he hated how stuffy Christmas always was at his house so he’d—”

“Sneak over here,” Benvolio finished wistfully. “And we’d get drunk on cyder or cognac, snogging behind the kitchens…”

Romeo had fallen quiet. There was a strange tension in his voice when he said, “Yes, and I’d go looking for you. But I was—I was thinking of that time we were twelve and we built a snow castle with the servants’ children and when his mother came looking for him, she walked in on Mercutio being pummeled with snowballs by a whole dozen of kitchen brats.”

Benvolio snorted. “Those were good times too.”

Romeo was quiet for some time, then said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, sorry.”

“I shouldn’t be indulging in this too much,” Benvolio admitted. “If I have any hope of following your example and trying to go on with my life, I shouldn’t let myself drown in the past too much.”

Romeo started to say something, almost as though in protest, but quickly stopped and fell quiet again. “Do you want to stay out here or go back inside?”

Benvolio tried to smile. “There are still far too many cookies left for us to stay out here. Mercutio would be disappointed in us.”

Romeo gave a small laugh. “Let’s go make him proud then.”  


*~*

Usually, they went to visit Mercutio's grave together. But that day in early January, Benvolio, feeling helplessly nostalgic and not finding Romeo around, went on his own. He supposed he could talk to Mercutio anywhere, and going as often as he still did was probably not healthy, but it was more grounding to have a specific place where he let himself go and speak to Mercutio without feeling like he was mad. 

What he was not counting on, when he rounded the corner of a small hedge, was to find Romeo there, sat in front of Mercutio’s grave on the cold, barren ground, his knees pulled up to his chest and head in his arms. His shoulders were shaking and Benvolio could hear that he was crying. Benvolio froze completely unprepared, the air knocked out of him. His first instinct was to run, to back away and pretend he had never been there. But he couldn’t stand to just leave Romeo there like that. He would be the worst scoundrel if he did. “Romeo?”

Romeo flinched and froze at the sound of his name. Benvolio could practically see him curling even further into himself as though he could become invisible. Benvolio had a sudden flash of memory from Mercutio’s funeral and how Romeo seemed to fold in on himself. 

"Romeo?" Benvolio said again, feeling his throat close up. He sat down beside his cousin and reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder, but didn't quite dare touch him. Romeo glanced up at him, flushed, and looked away again, rubbing vigorously at his swollen eyes. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming here? I would have come with you..."

"We already went the other week. I didn't want...I wasn't sure if it might upset you."

Benvolio bit his lip. If Romeo had said that he simply wanted to be alone, Benvolio would let up. It was normal to sometimes want to be alone with your feelings, with your grief. But Romeo barely cried when they went together and everything Benvolio knew about Romeo told him that it was not normal for him to want to be alone when he was in this sort of wrenching emotional state. "You're sweet, but...I wouldn't want you to cry alone like this."

Some emotion flickered across Romeo's face that put Benvolio on edge. He didn't answer, only wiped more at his eyes. "I just needed a moment."

"Alright." He finally worked up the courage to squeeze Romeo's shoulder. Romeo leaned into the touch, instinctively, and Benvolio winced inwardly. "I'm just concerned. You don't..." He wasn’t certain how to phrase it as to not sound offensive. Somehow saying _you don't usually cry when we go_ sounded accusatory. To ask _are you alright?_ also felt like a silly question - he'd found him sobbing by Mercutio's grave. Clearly, he wasn't alright. Suddenly, an awful thought struck him. "Romeo...do you come here alone often?"

Romeo shuddered, but nodded after a moment. "Well, not very often, since we go together too. But sometimes. When..." He shook his head, as though to stop himself from saying more. 

"To cry?" Benvolio said, softly, a statement more than a question. He could feel everything inside him curling up with guilt. 

Romeo didn't look at him, and the nod he gave was barely perceptible.

Benvolio sucked in a breath. "Why didn't you ever tell me. Or..."

Romeo shrugged. "My shit is the last thing you needed. Especially the first couple of months. I’ve been managing better lately too…"

He wasn't wrong in a way. For a long time, Benvolio could barely handle his own grief, not to mention anyone else's. But certainly, he would have never expected Romeo to not cry. He had simply assumed... What? That his always-emotional best friend was suddenly emotionally restrained? Had he really thought that Mercutio's death simply did not have as much of an impact on him? Had he not cared? "Oh, Ro..." he breathed out, wrapping an arm around Romeo's shoulders and pulling him closer. "I've been terribly selfish haven't I?"

Romeo's head jerked up. "No, no," he stammered, "I didn't mean that, I--"

"I know you didn't but I must have been if you thought we couldn't even cry together." Benvolio reached out and brushed a few curls out of Romeo's face. "What would Mercutio think of us."

Romeo gave him a small, watery smile "Mercutio is the last person allowed to judge people's communication skills."

Benvolio scoffed a small, sad laugh. "True. I know…I know I haven't been up to being very present, but..." He shook his head, the horror of the entire thing dawning on him. Romeo had talked so little about his own feelings. Even when they did talk about Mercutio, Romeo never went into any of the fits or hysterics that might have been expected of him. He had been almost closed off in every way that didn't revolve around Benvolio - who had he even gone to then with his grief? His Juliet was far away and didn't even know Mercutio, his parents weren’t he most emotionally available people, even if they loved him. Friar Lawrence? But he would likely only chide Romeo for despairing too much. He simultaneously needed and didn't want to know the extent to which he had failed Romeo.

Romeo hid his face into Benvolio’s shoulder, still sniffling. “It’s alright. You needed me and that meant I couldn’t just fall apart. You were right when you said I shouldn’t make this about me. Mercutio’s family, you – so many people who lost so much more than I did…”

Benvolio winced. He felt ashamed now of all the things he had said in the first throes of grief. “I was upset and angry and…not thinking straight. You deserve to be sad and cry as much as anyone. I didn’t deserve it any more…” He gave Romeo a small squeeze. “I’m sorry I said all those things. I never thought you shouldn’t be sad or cry. I wonder why…you seemed so…almost accepting of the whole thing after a while. Or at least…taking it better than I was.” He looked up and noticed the fresh batch of forget-me-nots, stark and bright against the snow. Benvolio bit down on his lip until it bled as the new realization came. How could he have doubted?

“I cried all the time. I think I rather drove Friar Lawrence mad with it, so then I just cried here…”

Benvolio shook his head. “What a little fool you are, Romeo. No more of this. Promise me.” He pulled back and cupped Romeo’s face so they were looking straight at each other. “Promise me you’ll come to me when it hurts too much or when you want to cry? I’m so much better now and it’s because you were always there when I needed you and I can’t stand the thought that you’ve been trying to deal with this alone…”

Romeo blinked at him tearfully. “Not really alone. I was with you.”

“Still. Promise me. Haven’t we spoken of this? Mercutio was your best friend. It was always the three of use together. Us three against the whole world, remember? Anyone who says you don’t deserve to mourn as much as anyone else is an idiot, frankly.”

Romeo gave a small, tearful scoff of a laugh. 

“I’m serious. I never for a second doubted that you miss him. I wouldn’t disbelieve for a moment that you miss him to death. Promise me.”

Romeo leaned into his hand and closed his eyes. “I promise.” 

*~* 

"Do you know how often he went?" Benvolio asked. 

"I couldn’t say, sir." Balthazar shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Messer Romeo has been quite private about his grief."

"Yes, I realize that," Benvolio snapped, the shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. That sort of tone wouldn't get him far. "Balthazar, I'm only worried. I feel like we've all...assumed that Romeo was taking the entire thing quite well given how prone he is to...expressing his feelings," Benvolio finished awkwardly, seeing the tightness in Balthazar's face and knowing it hid an annoyance that he did not dare show in full force to his masters. "I only wish to learn the extent of our neglect. Romeo will not be straight with me about it and I fear it's because he's afraid to be judged or...for whatever reason he chose to hide his grief."

"I suppose he took comfort from caring for those he loves."

Benvolio winced inwardly. He didn't know if it was intended as a jibe, but it felt like one. 

"If I may speak plainly and in confidence, sir?" Balthazar glanced around as though to make certain they were alone. 

"Of course. Please."

"While I feel that Messer Romeo has been less oppressed with grief as of late - time doing its natural work - I do believe he went regularly to Messer Mercutio's grave alone. Or otherwise to some private place to mourn. Perhaps Friar Lawrence. He did not go to confession more often than usual, though, as far as I can say. He often did not involve me in these plans and outings, but more often than not he would come home disheveled and it would be obvious he had been crying. Sometimes I wondered that neither his parents nor you noticed."

Benvolio bit his lip. There were times when he had but had he cared? Had he cared enough?

"He went through periods sometimes of nightmares and sometimes of insomnia. I suggested once he see a physician, although I don't think he had. On occasion, he would go sleep in your rooms when this happened, but only sometimes."

Benvolio thanked Balthazar for his honestly and let him go. He wondered into the orchard and leaned against one of the hedges, looking up at the grey winter sky. The cold air and wind made his eyes sting. _I’m a fool, Mercutio. We’re both such fools without you._

*~*

In February, he and Romeo took a trip out to a small cabin owned by the Montagues. They’d decided that they could use some time away from Verona. With the new year settling in and the fever of the holidays in the past, the emptiness in their lives left by Mercutio was making itself known all over again. “Friar Lawrence told me it would be like that for a while,” Romeo told him. “That grief is like a tide, It comes in and rolls out. When enough time has passed, you’ll have periods when you…not forget, exactly, but other things fill up that space. Little by little. But it will always be there and we will always feel it. And one day, the tide will roll back in and you remember almost like it was yesterday.”

Benvolio supposed that was true. He’d long since realized that someday he would simply get used to Mercutio’s absence. It would become a part of him as it was slowly becoming a part of Romeo. A part of both of them. Their childhood was gone, its last pieces blown away on a summer breeze, carried off by a crimson river. 

Mercutio could never stand the thought of growing up. Perhaps that was why he never did. 

But there was another piece that Benvolio had not quite expected to have to fit in to this puzzle of acceptance and nostalgic sorrow. It was the part where Romeo told him, a little shyly, as they sat on the floor by the cabin’s fireplace, drinking mulled wine, that Juliet had written to say she was coming back to Verona. “We will have a real wedding,” Romeo said dreamily, the happiness at the thought clear in his voice. He looked up at Benvolio with some anxiety in his eyes. “I can’t help but be happy for it, Ben. I…I’m very much in love with her.”

Benvolio put an arm around his shoulders even as a weight settled in his chest. A different sort than what he’d been feeling as he missed Mercutio, but still enough to make his stomach twist up. “You should be happy. She is your wife. We can’t help that Mercutio is gone and I can’t help feeling like I’ll never be as in love with anyone as I am with him. But that shouldn’t mean you can’t be in love and happy. Hell, Mercutio would want you to be happy – even if he’d tease you endlessly for being a romantic sap.”

“Thanks. I wish he could have met her.”

Benvolio let out a long sigh. Perhaps this was part of the loss, of the acceptance too. She would be his cousin-in-law. “Tell me about her.”

Later Benvolio would wonder if he’d dreamed it, or if he really had wandered down to the river that night and stood knee-deep in the ice-cold water with the dark woods quiet and ominous around him. The snow glinted in the moonlight and everything felt a little surreal, like in a dream. He took a step forward and then another. 

Acceptance was a strange thing. He hadn’t thought of dying much lately. But now he wondered if that was only because he had found a way to replace Mercutio with Romeo, if only just a little bit. Perhaps he terminally needed some one person to attach himself to. But Romeo’s wife was coming back to Verona, and soon she and their children would fill up enough of Romeo’s life that the hole Mercutio left would not be as gaping. The tide would come in for Romeo. 

But Benvolio only felt that hole open up for himself again. Romeo had been his tide, but Juliet was the moon pulling him inevitably away. 

“You are a real fool.”

Benvolio looked up, startled. His heart beet so fast he suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Mercutio?” Mercutio seemed to hover a few steps above the water, just a few feet in front of him. Benvolio splashed forward, not feeling the sting of the icy water against his legs. “Mercutio! Oh dear god!” The riverbank suddenly began to give way, and Benvolio floundered, waving his arms to keep balance and not fall straight into he current. 

“Goddamn it, ‘Volio, being a ghost isn’t very comfortable but I suppose I had no choice.”

Benvolio froze, tears began to slip down his cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much,” was all he could say. 

Mercutio’s face softened. “I’ve missed you too. You and Romeo…”

“You can’t really be here,” Benvolio whispered. “Not after all this time.”

Mercutio sighed. “I told you, it’s not so easy to come visit as a ghost. I probably won’t again.”

“W-why…?”

Another sigh. “Because I hope you’ll never be this close to launching yourself into the river again. I thought you were doing better…”

Benvolio rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve been trying but. I can’t keep living like this, feeling like something is constantly missing. I thought I could, at least while I had Romeo. But now he’ll be gone…”

Mercutio snorted. “He’s married not dying. Thank god.”

“He’s still leaving me.”

Mercutio cocked his head and stared at him. “Sweetheart. Right now, you’re the one trying to leave him.”

Benvolio shivered. “I don’t…I don’t want to hurt him!”

“I know you don’t. But how do you think he’ll feel if he wakes up to both of his best friends being dead?”

Benvolio’s shivering became violent. “If you’re telling me I’m being selfish—”

“You are!”

Benvolio hugged himself and pouted. “You come to see me and all you can do is throw accusations.”

Mercutio’s expression softened and he walked – floated? – closer to Benvolio. “My sweet ‘Volio. I would die a thousand times over just to hold you again. But what can be done for us now?”

Benvolio sobbed. “Nothing. Nothing can be done.” He looked into Mercutio’s ethereal face and knew that even if this was real, it was still not the same. It never, never would be. 

“You must live, Benvolio. There will be people for you to love and things for you to do. And even if this grief is always a part of you, the tide will come in and make it easier to bare. And there will be other joys.”

Benvolio shook his head. “I’ll never love anyone the way I love you.”

Mercutio smirked, the expression painfully familiar. “I am quite special.”

Benvolio made a sound between a scoff and a laugh and splashed some water at Mercutio. The droplets made no visible impact and Benvolio shuddered violently again. 

“But you will love,” Mercutio said. “And Romeo needs you. You’re not losing him and I don’t want him to lose you. Three is better than two, but two is better than someone being all alone. Does he not love you well enough?”

Benvolio shook his head quickly. “That’s not it at all. But he’s all I have left. What if…he’ll have his wife and family and what will I have?”

“You will have him and your cousins and some day…” He smiled sadly, a bit of jealousy in his eyes. “Some day you’ll have someone to make a family with as well. Or even if not, adopt a child or a puppy. It’s family enough too.”

“You were never so serious when you were alive,” Benvolio complained. 

“When I was alive, I didn’t need to watch the two people closest to me fall apart for months and hardly be able to talk to each other properly about it.”

“I’m sorry. We’re trying. We just miss you too much.”

Mercutio sighed. He reached out, his fingers hovering an inch away from Benvolio’s cheek. “Do this one more thing for me, love. Live and be there for Romeo and find all the joy you can, squeeze it out of this damn awful world.” He sighed. “I miss you too. One day, ‘Volio, one day...”

He began to back away and Benvolio let out a high pitched scream. “Don’t-don’t go! Not yet!” He splashed forward again and began to feel the current taking his feel out from under him. Mercutio was starting to fade away. 

Something made Benvolio look back. Through the trees, he could see the light of the windows of the Montagues’ cabin. He could imagine Romeo asleep on the sofa, blissfully unaware of what was happening. And suddenly he could also imagine Romeo falling down on his knees in the snow by the river, his tears and—and—

He looked back, frantically looking for Mercutio. Mercutio was still hovering over the river, but now Benvolio would need to swim to get to him. He was fading and fading, a hand still outstretched to Benvolio, whispering, “I love you. Always.”

Where was he going? Would Benvolio find him if he followed or would he only be forever lost in the dark. _Where two go, the third must follow,_ they had always said in their childhood. 

Would Romeo—could he? Would his wife and future children be enough? Did it matter? Would they all three be together? 

Benvolio shook his head to clear his thoughts, one more morbid than the next. It struck him suddenly that Romeo could have followed Juliet out of Verona or could have at least gone to visit her now and again. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t… 

Mercutio’s words were now a whisper in the trees, _I love you, I love you. You and Romeo both._

“I love you, too,” Benvolio whispered. “You and Romeo both.” He closed his eyes as the final wave of acceptance washed over him. When he opened them again, Mercutio was gone and the woods and river were still again. 

Slowly, Benvolio pulled himself out of the water, and trekked back to the cabin. 

He never told Romeo about what happened. He never even knew if it was real. In the morning, he woke up curled on the sofa with Romeo, his clothes and boots dry. But when they went outside, there were footprints leading down to the river through the fresh snow. 

What Benvolio did know, however, was that he never thought about throwing himself in the river again, and he never saw Mercutio again. And somehow, he and Romeo carried on.


End file.
